


Clash

by cat_77



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Off screen canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a clash of cultures and a clash of selves.  It had the potential to be the most important con of her life.</p><p>Spoilers for episode 1.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clash

**Author's Note:**

> For the "culture shock" square at hc_bingo.
> 
> * * *

She was a con artist. She had pulled long cons, short cons, quick disruptions to screw people over, and quick distractions to put the attention on others so she could slip away. She had pretended to be mothers, sisters, cousin, girlfriends, and old coworkers long forgotten. She had lived in dingy flats and abandoned buildings and, on one notable occasion, in the basement of a factory for a good three months before they noticed something was amiss and she had to slip away.

This? Was different.

This was her, yet not. This was the life she could have had, yet wasn’t. This was proof of where she could have been if given the chance. This was proof of where she could be if she had taken the chances given.

She walked through the townhouse, as in an actual townhouse and not a flat, and saw all the things that could have been hers and all the things she never wanted. The walls were plain and white, the furniture minimalistic. The fridge was stocked with health food and the freezer with four different types of ice cream. There was a cupboard for drinks and a cupboard for some sort of fancy dishes she would never know what to do with. There was a dishwasher and a stove scrubbed clean of any traces of what might have been made there. There was a shelf full of more prescription bottles than she had sold in the past year.

There were pictures, just a few, here and there on random flat surfaces. She was smiling in them, either alone or with some guy who was consistent enough to possibly be a boyfriend. They were framed and dusted and mostly free of fingerprints. They were situated in places both obvious and out of the way, a casual understanding of what was there without having to scream it was important. 

Sarah could appreciate that, even if she knew she had no right to. 

She stole a spoon full of some ice cream and a tumbler full of Hennessy, and planned to walk through the rest of the place again, case it for something she might have missed on her first go through, only some part of her just could not risk the chocolate dripping down on the spotless floors, staining the carpets and bedspreads of someone who clearly wasn’t actually going to mind given that they most definitely were not around to do so.

She washed what she took and put them away the best she could, dried her hands on a towel a lot nicer than she would have ever wasted money on, and grabbed the mail that had been left for the place’s original occupant. There were magazines about getting the right look, some about fitness and running, and some about cooking and proper diets. There were advertisements for shoe sales and clothing with price tags that were insane and a gun club of all things. There was a bill due in two weeks that would never be paid and, most importantly, another bank statement that showed her there was so much more than hawking she could do to earn a buck.

She made her way to the bedroom, paused to look at a glistening bathroom with a tub free of mould or mildew. She was tempted to take her boots off and curl her toes in the soft rug there, but resisted. She didn’t resist bouncing on the bed even though she had already done so before, but felt the need to smooth out the incredibly soft coverlet afterwards, like she had tarnished something and now needed to shine it right and proper.

The closet was huge, with more shirts and skirts and trousers than she could probably wear in a year. There were drawers with nylons and tights and lingerie that she was tempted to steal outright, just to feel their softness for a little while before they became ratted and torn. There was a box with necklaces and bracelets and watches that had a street value that would feed her and Kira for a long time coming. There were shoes that were ridiculous and impractical and possibly more than a little cool.

She set the box to the side as there was no need to tangle everything in a bag and the wood was smooth and inlaid with an intricate pattern Fee would like. She gave in to the urge to try more than a single blouse on, found that they of course fit pretty much perfectly as they were made for another version of herself. The trousers were the same, though she rarely had held an iron in her life and doubted she’d be able to keep the precise creases for past an hour.

There was a bag, a suitcase that everything would fit in nice and neat like. None of the neighbours would question her traipsing around with one, they would think that this “Beth Childs” was leaving on a trip of some sort, probably wish her well or promise to look after the place because that was the type of neighbourhood she was in. Clothing and jewellery and lingerie and maybe some of those towels – she could take a couple pieces, have what could have been hers, destroy them because she would never know what to do with them and would break and crack and tear them the way she always did.

She had a choice now, and she knew it. She could smash and run, run the quick scam, sell what she could and be rid of the memories. She’d get Kira from Mrs. S and head out on her own again, no one the wiser save for Fee because she always told him everything. Or she could run a slightly longer con, pretend to be this person that could have been her, dress up and play make believe with something she knew nothing about but had kind of wanted more than once in her past, and make far more than few hundred. She could set herself up for damn near life, and her daughter too if she played her cards right. It would be harder, take more skill and more chances, require her to walk the walk and use all the stuff she was currently surrounded by and had no idea what to do with, but it would also have a far greater payoff in the end.

It would also give her a better glimpse of who she might have been had circumstances been different.

She knew better than to think everything had been coming up roses for this Beth person. The drugs and the fact she offed herself was proof enough for that. But maybe Sarah had something she didn’t. Maybe her time fighting back against everything that would hold her down would be enough to turn the life around for someone already dead. At least enough to up the winnings just that little bit more. At least enough for her to have a little bit of luxury before she hit the streets again.

There were home movies, or DVDs as the case may be. She sat down to watch them, resisted the urge to grab another spoonful of chocolate to do so. She could see the life this woman led, all neat and time-stamped and cheerful and playacted for whoever held the camera. She could see how she did things, how she used things, what made her the person she was. 

What made her the person Sarah would never be.

She found a hint of an attitude there, a bit of crass with the class, a bit of Sarah with the Beth. When Fee called to ask if she had made up her mind about the con, she knew what she wanted to do and who she wanted to be, even if just for a little while. She looked to the screen, the frozen smile and the haunted yet still playful eyes that stared back. She wanted to give herself the chance. She wanted to give this woman the chance to get back at whatever demons tormented her. 

She felt her lips curl slightly into a hint of a smile of her own as she replied, “You’re damn right.”


End file.
